The Art in Illusion
by Ilysia11
Summary: By definition, a squib was a person without the ability to form magic. How, then, could his family label him as such? He could perform magic, just not the "magic" the wizarding world practiced. No, his was far more ancient, far more in touch with the universe . . .


"_Harry!" _

He remembered much of that day, the day fate wrested from him his family, his rightful home.

"_What . . . what happened, Harry? W-why are you covered in b-blood?" _

It was the worst day of his life.

"_Mommy . . . my head feels funny."_

_The young red-headed woman, so beautiful in soul, unleashed a scream of anguish that could only spring from the ugliest and most terrifying of sorrows. Her hands flew to her face, inching towards her eyes, as if she could not bear the sight that besieged them. The strength with which she carried herself sunk into oblivion as her shoulders folded inwards, arms shielding herself, rosy lips gaping in abject horror. Her fair skin developed a pallor that transformed her into a ghost, a weeping corpse, as she bemoaned the loss of the life she had carefully constructed._

_Harry felt something glide down his cheek like a kiss of liquid warmth. His forehead throbbed with immeasurable pain as if an earthquake had exploded from his head. He squinted, trying to entrap the salty tears that threatened to spill from his shining emerald orbs. He didn't want to cry. Daddy said it wasn't manly. He had to be a man for his mommy. But . . . a shaking hand reached up to inspect his forehead and, upon striking something warm and viscous, recoiled. And with it came startling sanguine liquid, fiery in its recent liberation. He stared at the beguiling liquid, numb, disbelieving. _

_ "M-my blood . . . ?" he whispered, his voice exiting in a series of quivering breaths and stutters. _

_He suddenly felt weak and hollow, as if his life were oozing out from the opening on his forehead. The hollowness struck him like a merciless invader and he collapsed on his knees, his stubby legs no longer able to support his weight. It was as if a vacuum had penetrated his body, sucking from him his strength . . . _

_ "Mommy . . . ?" he implored, eyes teary and fraught with confusion. The woman could only return his glassy, sorrowful stare. _

_ She merely cried to herself, staring at the wounded boy as if he were a dying animal. _

_ "Mommy?" Harry pleaded again, tense. He sensed a shift in her as her will hardened and her steadfast determination freed itself from its temporary shackles._

_ "I'm sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry," she sobbed, her angelic voice so completely broken that it would shatter the hearts and minds of Satan's most malicious demons. Harry, without knowing why, felt a second wound open. But no matter where he looked, he could not find it. . ._

_ And all the while a shadow hid itself in the deepest, darkest corner of the room, gleefully celebrating another victory, as his brother descended into the pits of hell, leaving him alone to bask in paradise. . . _

He had been five, a child in the eyes of children, and already manipulated to another's tune, cast aside at another's whim. His childhood, his bliss, ended abruptly with no transition or preparation. Thrust into hardship, he had to claw his way out of the abyss in which he was thrown headfirst. His bitterness smoldered, it _festered_ under the neglectful care of his new_ owners, _until finally he gave in to Satan's tantalizing temptation . . . But gravity leashed him once more and he plummeted to the dirt on which he begged for heaven's forgiveness. On his knees, head bowled over in shame, he repented under heaven's omniscient eye, wringing the indomitable evil from his soul.

And, at once, he forgot.

At once, he forgave.

At once, he perceived.

The world opened itself to him, barraging his mind with every image, every whim . . .

It was a gift.

It was a curse.

It was . . . an anomaly.

He did not know what to call it. He knew it was not magic for he was born a lone squib in a family of powerful wizards. Though ashamed, his parents had resolved to love him and raise him. They had not cared that he was born without magic. He was their child, borne of their flesh and blood, borne of their love. But if one loves someone, they must let them go . . .

For his protection, he was sent away to live with his mother's non-magical family. Repeatedly, his forehead had bled from exposure to potent magical energy, he was told. But he knew the truth. His brother, his jealous brother, was the mastermind behind his departure. His brother, his magical brother, decided he alone wanted their parents' attention and love. And he alone was not afraid to justify the means with the ends . . .

Harry would begin to bleed without warning, all in the same spot: his forehead. It would happen during breakfast, during lunch, during dinner, during the night . . . And eventually his parents came to believe he was allergic to magical energy. The nurses confirmed it for his brother's constant attacks had elicited the allergy within his body. He would die, the nurses told his parents, if he remained in the constant presence of magic. So it was with tears and regret that they reluctantly sent him away.

_Be safe,_ they told him, _we love you forever and always. _

His brother sent him one last farewell smirk, relishing in his newly won monopoly on parental love.

And so Harry left his one true home, the home where love transcended all labels, all boundaries. Thrust into the home of his aunt, he toppled under the staunch rules and regulations, the contained love, the austerity of the family, and the unfounded prejudice from which he suffered. He twisted and bent, all to garner the favor, the love, of his family . . . but they remained distant. They remained discriminant. They remained strict. And as he attempted to change them, they, in fact, changed him.

They drew and nurtured his bitterness. They starved his body and mind. They thrashed his spirit with negligence and callousness.

Battered and bruised, torn and struck down again and again until finally, he broke.

_The knife sparkled in the light, a silver star in a sea of abandon. It was gloriously sharpened and smooth, the cold steel resting upon his skin like ice to a bruise. He breathed slowly, heartbeat racing as he lifted the knife upward. It was about the size of his forearm, a mere kitchen knife, but still sharp enough to eliminate his suffering. He shook as the knife inched upwards, carried by a quivering left hand, so pale in the light, so sickly. _

_This knife would end it all._

_The door was closed. A gag made from an old t-shirt was around his mouth and his hot breath blew back into his nostrils, heat that made him sweat. His forehead throbbed . . ._

_He sat on his bed. The cupboard light was on to craft an illusion of normalcy for his relatives. Everything was set. Everything was prepared._

_The only component of the plan left to fulfil was his death. Harry took a shaky breath and the knife froze for a second. But then his resolve steeled itself once more._

Mother and Father left me here, _he thought. _They must have wanted to me die. I'm only doing what they wanted.

_And yet his heart still thudded, his forehead still throbbed, and he still sweated buckets upon buckets of hot liquid. He stared at the knife, willing it to move, to cut his arm, his wrist, to steal away his life. A life so full of suffering and pain that death would grant him the highest of mercies . . ._

_But the knife dropped, a slow, soundless descent to the ground. Harry stared after it, dazed. _

_He couldn't do it._

He wasn't strong enough. Or perhaps his will to live was _too _strong.

Or . . . perhaps his prayers for happiness had finally been answered because the very next day, he was sent to an orphanage.

The very next day, a new life began . . .

* * *

><p>"Lily . . . Can I come in?"<p>

A beautiful red-headed woman stiffened at the voice. Despite her youth, lines cast ugly shadows on his face, skin worn thin by worry and hardship.

"Yes," she murmured softly, her voice raspy with disuse.

A figure cautiously opened the door.

"Sirius got reservations at the new restaurant in Diagon Alley. He's bringing his family and invited us and Remus. I know you might not feel up to it but you need to get out. Holing yourself up won't do you any good! It'll—it'll just make everything worse . . ."

James' voice cracked. He took a deep breath.

"Come one, Lils, please. I can't . . . I can't watch you die like this."

"Then don't," Lily muttered. "Go ahead. Bring Charlus with you. Have fun."

"But, Lily! You must—this isn't healthy!" His voice rose at the end, donning an oddly hysterical tone. He began to breathe heavily; his heartbeat raced. An unbearable weight settled on his shoulders but it was eclipsed by the sickening feeling in his stomach.

Lily didn't move. Her gaze remained downcast. Even in the dim light, he could discern the tiny glimmer of a tear rolling down her cheek.

"Harry would have been eleven today, James. He would have received his Hogwarts acceptance letter. We would have went out to dinner and taken him to get his wand . . ."

James felt like he'd been hit by a car. A troll swung a heavy baton at his ribs, pain blossoming like a flower . . .

"Lily . . . you know that wouldn't have happened. Harry . . ." James trailed off, swallowing painfully. "He was a squib, Lily . . . Even if the car hadn't killed him, he'd—he'd—"

He broke off. His lungs ceased to function, barring all oxygen from entering. His throat joined the strike and he found himself struggling to swallow a mouse-sized lump. The feeling in his stomach worsened tenfold, as if attacked by acid rain.

For the first time since he'd entered the room, Lily looked up at him. Her emerald eyes, her once beautiful emerald eyes, were dull and puffy, surrounding by rings of red and sorrow.

"But still . . . his birthday—he would—we would have celebrated! With a cake and presents and family and—Oh God, this is all my fault—!"

Her cry morphed into a sob. She buried her face in her hands, eyes shedding tears, body shaking. James walked up behind her and took his suffering wife in his arms, embracing her in a protective hold, as if trying to drive away the pain and sorrow that afflicted her. He stared at the ground, Lily's sobs mere background music in a play abounding in disease and malady.

He didn't feel like joining Sirius anymore, even if was meant as a distraction for them all.

No distraction could mitigate the grief of loss.

No distraction would heal the festering wound in his family.

And no mere distraction would bring his son back to life.

* * *

><p><em>This is a prologue. The first real chapter should be up shortly.<em>

_~Thanks._


End file.
